


and never get out again

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 5+1 Things, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-21 06:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21070262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Five things that never happened to Thomas Barrow (and one that did).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from [oh to be in love by kate bush (youtube)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdKbloadwEA).
> 
> these are all vignettes, and i hope to post one every 1-2 days for the next week or so but may end up putting them all out in a cluster, we'll see.

_ i. _

"I don't believe that — "

"Well," comes the reply, "believe what you like."

When Thomas turns around, Philip is tying up his dressing gown and grinning at him, unabashed.

"Better than we thought it'd come off, isn't it?" asks Thomas, letting his eyes wander. Philip's dressed modestly, of course, but that doesn't mean there's nothing to see. "Lady Mary Crawley, heiress."

"And you a valet, Thomas Barrow."

It's about time.

Philip raises his glass of whiskey; Thomas takes one from the bar table and does the same.

They drink.

"I'll have to wait to propose, of course, one cannot be hasty with these things, but Lord Grantham bestowed his blessing this evening and I daresay I gave Mary something to think about on my way up," says Philip, handing over his shirt and trousers. Thomas replaces them, smug. "I'll return to London the day after tomorrow, but expect me again in a fortnight."

"I'll try to be patient."

"You've done well enough until now, haven't you? What's another two weeks?"

Another two weeks with only his hand for company, more like.

Thomas finishes tidying up, makes it all look like it hasn't been touched, everything in place — he's  _ good _ at this job, good at being a valet, he knows it, and he'll never say a bad word about Bates again, after this. If he'd gotten that job, if he was waiting on the Earl of Grantham, he wouldn't be here waiting on a duke, now, would he.

Actually, he'll absolutely say a bad word about Bates, he's not about to give that up, but it's the thought that counts. He can do and say what he likes downstairs, now, more than ever before, because he's got a job and a promotion waiting for him elsewhere. A job with someone that actually appreciates him for what he's worth. A job with someone that doesn't treat him like dirt under his boots.

That'll show Carson, won't it, him being specially requested by someone of higher station than precious Lord Grantham.

Philip sits on the bed, leans back. One of the sleeves of his dressing gown falls down his shoulder; when Thomas notices, he forgets himself and stares.

"You're welcome to look, of course, Thomas," says Philip after a while, teasing, _enticing_, "but I can't very well go to bed with my shoes still on, can I?"

"Why, no, _your Grace_, I shouldn't think so."

Better angle to look from, anyway.

So he kneels at his feet and gets started. He's slow about it, intentional — once the first shoe is off, Thomas massages his ankle and rubs his hand up and down his calf, doting, and then he does the other foot the same way. Above him, Philip sighs; Thomas uses a light touch to remove his stockings, strokes up from his shin to his knee to his thigh. He's going to make himself indispensable; he's going to ruin him for anyone else, servant and lover alike; he's going to be the best man the Duke of Crowborough ever had.

"Eager, aren't you?"

"Only doing my job."

"Yes, you're quite good at it."

Damn right he is.

Thomas stands.

Philip just cocks his head to one side, smiling at him.

"Will you be needing assistance with your dressing gown, your Grace?"

Almost makes him laugh, calling him that; it's not how they normally address one another. Doing it in private makes it easier to avoid missteps in public, though, and if he's not mistaken, Philip gets off on it, anyway. He's into the whole master and servant thing, even if he won't admit to it. Of course, sometimes it seems like he gets off on Thomas addressing him as an equal, too, and whether that's some fantasy about debasement or something more benign he doesn't quite care, because he likes making him excited no matter how he's doing it. They may not be on par with one another in a court or a ballroom, but in a bedchamber they're on an even pitch.

And Thomas is an excellent sportsman.

"Do you know, I think that I will indeed."

He sits beside him on the bed and takes up his collar to gently slide the rest of the gown down over his shoulders, and once it's exposed, he kisses the nape of his neck.

That gets a hum out of him, so he keeps up, kisses the crook of his collarbone and the front of his shoulder, down his arm, the inside of his elbow.

"You do love me, don't you, Thomas," Philip murmurs.

More than anyone he's ever loved in his life.

With his other hand, Philip presses two fingers under his chin, tilts his head up to look at him. 

God, is he lucky to be with someone this handsome, this kind. Someone who came out to the middle of nowhere in Yorkshire to see him, someone marrying into the family he serves just to keep him around. He's never had that before, but now he does, and he's going to keep it forever if he can help it.

"I do," he says.

Philip kisses him.


	2. Chapter 2

_ii._

Their fingers brush as he hands him his tie.

If he's not mistaken, Pamuk is smirking.

"I should love to visit Turkey," says Thomas, once he's turned his back.

It's a bold start, but not so bold he can't come back from it, if he has to. Plenty of working folk dream of travel, don't they, and it's not like the English aren't known for their fondness of the Orient.

Or something like that, anyway.

Pamuk stills — only for half a second, but he does all the same, and that's enough of a reaction to encourage him.

"Yes, it's a — "

He's fussy, isn't he, cares about his appearance a bit more than the rest. From his position Thomas can sort of see his face in the looking glass, a prim, composed expression, and in the back of his mind he's wondering what he looks like when he's less put together.

"It's a wonderful country — my man always does this, can you?"

Certainly he can. 

He keeps his face deferential, wills his hands not to shake as he does. By accident, he touches his knuckle to Pamuk's neck.

A thrill runs down his spine.

"I'm very attracted to the Turkish culture."

Thomas hopes it's clear that the culture he's referring to is less sugared confectionery and imperial mosques, and more… a permissive legal code and long-standing artistic tradition. 

And oil wrestling.

"Then I hope your chance will come to sample it."

If he knows one thing, he knows himself: he  _ is _ sharp about anything out of order, and Kemal Pamuk has been out of order since he showed up in muddied riding clothes this morning. Out of the ordinary, more like — handsome, for one thing, which no one was expecting, and two, if Thomas is reading things right, far, far less interested in Lady Mary than he's been putting on.

"I hope so, too."

Pamuk says nothing, but Thomas can feel his eyes on him, appraising. 

His heart is pounding. He keeps his own gaze focused on his neck — he's already done up the tie, but adjusting it is his excuse to keep his hands near Pamuk's face. 

Then again, if he  _ is _ reading things right, he doesn't need an excuse, now, does he.

_ Now or never, _ thinks Thomas, and he brings his hand to Pamuk's cheek, strokes the underside of his jaw.

"How very forward you are, Thomas."

But he doesn't move away, doesn't flinch or jerk or throw Thomas off him — and he remembers his name, which, they don't always.

A victory if there ever was one.

When Thomas caresses his neck, Pamuk takes his hand, kisses it, and replaces it at his side. 

"As pleasing as you are, I don't suppose now is the best time, is it. I shouldn't like to be tardy for dinner."

"Of course, sir."

"But that hardly means there will not  _ be _ a time — it is your duty to undress me, is it not?"

He can't believe this is happening.

"It is, sir."

Pamuk smiles — sincere, Thomas thinks, not smug. "I shall see you at the end of the evening, then, Thomas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a) this ends in sex but i decided not to include it because i didn't want to finish writing it  
(b) it also probably still ends in blackmail (about the sex) and kemal pamuk dying in mary's bed. but at least thomas got laid am i right


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for suicide.
> 
> follows up on my (canon compliant) piece [something like a smile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897000), but that is not required reading by any means.

_ iii.  _

He's got other duties, actual duties, now that he's lance sergeant, but this is fulfilling them, really. Lieutenant Courtenay needs the fresh air.

Thank God he wasn't sent to Farley Hall, and if Clarkson had wanted him sent to convalescence even a week earlier he would have been, but then some poor old sod with shell shock and only half his limbs left took himself out at the prospect of leaving, so here they are.

Says something horrible about him, that he's glad for it, but no one has to know, now, do they.

"We're coming up on gravel, mind, Lieutenant."

Besides, he's nicer than he used to be, with Courtenay around, gone soft, according to O'Brien. She'd said it derisively, but he's proud of himself, if he's honest.

Love'll do that.

"Thank you, Sergeant," and they make the transition smoothly, no stumbles or anything.

Courtenay's quiet today — his melancholy just sort of comes and goes, and Thomas has stopped trying to find a pattern in it. It seemed like it was linked to things, letters from home, struggles with braille, knocking into furniture, unthinking comments from the other soldiers, but turns out his day could be going swimmingly and he'd still get into this _mood_, like there's no hope left for him and he ought to give up the fight. 

Thomas's greatest fear is that what happened at the hospital gave him an idea.

"You've made a good deal of progress, sir," he says, hesitant. They'll have to part once they're back at the house, Thomas back to work and Courtenay back to respite, and if he doesn't get anything out of him before then his own mood's going to crash, so he ought to try.

Funny how that works. It never used to be this way — when Philip was down he'd feel empathetic for a moment and then get on with his life, nothing he can do about it, so no use worrying. Maybe now it's because he  _ can _ do something, or feels like he ought to be able to, even if the reality is that he can't always. He wants to be able to wave his hand like an illusionist and make all of Courtenay's problems disappear.

"Doesn't feel that way," Courtenay mutters.

He doesn't know what to say to that.

Yesterday he'd been telling everyone how pleased he was he could read again, told Lady Edith a story from one of the readers as he drew his fingers over the pages, slow, but simultaneous. 

(In his off time, Thomas practises punching a pencil into stock paper, enough to make an indent but not to make a hole. The carer gave him a guide to the alphabet and smiled at him when he asked for it, told him he had to learn it twice because it all has to be reversed to write properly, but he also promised that it was quick to learn if you're motivated. And God, is Thomas motivated. When Courtenay cheers up and gets functional and leaves, he wants to keep in touch. He knows he doesn't feel the same about him, that he's got a girl to get back to and a year to finish at Oxford — it's possible, apparently — and a home and a family and whatnot, that he may forget about Thomas the second he's on a train out of Downton, but if he asks, if he says, _you'll write to me, won't you_, he wants to be able to say yes and mean it.)

Thomas swallows. "We'll be at the house shortly."

"Sergeant Barrow, I…" 

"Yes, sir?"

"Before we go in — "

He's stammering, which isn't like him.

"Is anyone around?"

Anyone is rather an understatement — it's a nice day, and according to most of the nurses there's nothing better for the human spirit than sunshine. There are several out on walks, and someone's set up a game of croquet, but whether that's more for motor skills or the young nurses' entertainment is anyone's guess.

"Er, there is, sir, we're nearest to Major Clifford and Nurse Bothwell — "

"Take me somewhere private."

Oh, Christ, what has he done now.

"We'll have to walk a bit more — "

"I can do it, Barrow."

Well.

That stings.

"Of course, Lieutenant."

The only place he can think of is near the back entrance — there's a little alcove right before you pass into the servants' yard, and as far as he knows he's the only one who ever bothers to use it. If they're quiet, they won't be overheard by anyone on the other side of the wall, either.

So he takes them there, doesn't say anything while he does it. He's not fond of being snapped at.

"Right. Well."

"Where are we?"

"Back of the house, sir, near the servants' entrance."

Courtenay's mouth quirks, a little, and Thomas can't tell if it's in distaste or amusement. His emotions typically show on his face, but not in his voice — whether he's always been like that or if it's a side effect of not being able to see he'll never know, but the point is that when his expression is unclear, Thomas loses his entire ability to judge where they're at.

"Alone."

"Yes, sir, alone."

Walls on two sides, trees around them.

Courtenay reaches out with his free hand until he finds Thomas's arm, grips it firmly.

"Sergeant Barrow," he says, voice even, but his face is showing displeasure.

_He's figured you out again_. He must have. No one's ever really read him like that, before, although to his discredit he did give a hint, and it's no bloody surprise that he can do it again. And of course it was just fine for Courtenay to know that his attendant was into blokes, just fine when he was regular otherwise, not effete and affected, and it was all hypothetical and had nothing to do with him, but now that he's the target it's not fine anymore. 

God, he fucking knew this would happen.

Should've been more careful, should've touched him less, shouldn't have let his gaze linger or his voice wobble, because even if Courtenay can't see he's not _unobservant_, and who knows if anyone else has come to the same conclusion, if the officers talk about him when he's not around, talk about how bloody lovesick he is for poor blind Lieutenant Courtenay who can't see it for himself that Sergeant Barrow is depraved.

Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last, neither.

His hand's on his shoulder, now, nearer to his neck. 

"I know how you feel about me."

Thomas can't breathe; he squeezes his eyes shut. He's gone dumb, but if he doesn't say anything that's just digging his own grave, so he forces out the words.

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Barrow, I'm blind, not an idiot."

"Of course, sir."

What is this, what are they doing, why is this happening to him — 

"For Christ's sake, Sergeant, I haven't made you bring me here so I could, could beat you, or whatever it is you're thinking," says Courtenay, like he means to go on, and Thomas isn't about to look at him because he hadn't even thought of that as an option on the table but now that it's been mentioned some nasty memories are coming up again — 

Courtenay kisses him, just a peck, really, but on the lips and with intention.

He opens his eyes and sees him smiling.

"Wasn't certain I had the courage to do that."

Now he really is speechless, can't do anything other than stare, but Courtenay's hand is on his jaw now and then they're kissing again, open mouthed, this time, and Thomas kisses back.

"Crikey," says Courtenay once they've parted, and Thomas laughs at him.

He feels like he's dreaming.

"You're better at it than all the boys at Harrow were."

"Were there very many boys at Harrow, sir?"

"None that I liked so much as you," says Courtenay. "Bet that's the difference."

They try it again to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahah what do you mean this isn't how it went
> 
> this is longer than the previous two chapters combined, so, you can see what ship i actually care about.


	4. Chapter 4

_ iv. _

"You know why."

Jimmy turn his head away from him, lips pressed together; he's still stone-faced, almost like he's not seeing anything.

Stings, a little, but Thomas knows he's not much to look at at the moment.

He turns, heads to the door, and  _ right, guess I didn't need to remind you of that  _ –

But instead of walking out, he closes it. "Do I," he mutters, and then he turns back around and grabs a chair — once he's set it by the bed, though, he just stands there and doesn't sit in it.

What he does do is look Thomas in the eye.

It's the first time he's done it for ages and ages, and if this is all Thomas gets out of this, if all Jimmy gives him is eye contact and a semblance of respect, he could make himself be satisfied with it. He's made himself be satisfied with plenty else up until now, and he wasn't doing it for himself, either, that's the kicker. He didn't do it to  _ get something out of it; _ he did it because it needed to be done. No one else was going to, and alcohol and a beating is a nasty combination.

It was empathy, is what it was, and love, and the tiny bit of him leftover from God knows how long ago that's actually selfless.

Course, if he could do it over again, he might try to avoid getting so bloodied up in the process.

But he would still do it.

God, he would still do it, and that's the worst thing, that he knows he'd do it all over again right now if he had to, that he'd take it twice as hard if it meant he was keeping Jimmy out of harm's way. The feeling's so strong it hurts, and he doesn't know how it's lasted this long, given everything that's happened between them, but it has. He's lovesick. Though his cuts may heal and his bruises may fade, if today's any indication, he's not going to be well from the underlying condition anytime soon.

"All this time I've been thinking I can never give you what you want  – "

_ Salt in the wound, Jimmy. _

"I understand that, I  – I  do," he says, because how can he not, at this point. He's understood it for longer than anyone else in this damn house thinks he has.

Jimmy just stares at him, brow creased, lips parted.

This is going to be harder than it has to be, isn't it.

"And I don't ask for – "

"No, Mr. Barrow, I don't think that you do understand."

Eye contact he'll get, maybe, but not respect. Never respect.

Thomas laughs.

It's hollow, and the act of it makes the split in his lips burn and the scrapes at his eyes ache.

"What else is there, Jimmy," he says, grimacing, "what else is there to bloody understand that you haven't made crystal clear already – "

"Mr. Barrow, Thomas, I – I'm trying to tell you that – "

"Tell me what, exactly? Look, you and I both know this is never going to end in a way that's mutually – " 

Jimmy finally sits, and Thomas quiets.

He's squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his hands on the thighs of his trousers, and when he relaxes, when he opens his eyes again, there's a new expression on his face. Not one Thomas has seen before, that he can remember, and he remembers a whole lot, when it comes to Jimmy.

"That I think I'm in love with you."

He doesn't know what to say, but unfortunately, that doesn't keep him from saying anything.

"Don't bloody joke about it."

"Not laughing, am I?"

He's not.

In fact, he looks terrified.

For that reason alone, Thomas figures he's telling the truth. Still, he won't let himself feel anything about it, not yet. It's not real yet. Tension's still high, and whatnot.

"Well," he says. "Damn."

Jimmy nods.

"Might – might want to sort this out when I'm not…" He gestures to his face, winces. "And you've got – work to get back to, don't you, wouldn't want to keep you from it."

"I'll come back up," Jimmy says, standing, moving the chair back where it came from. "And I do mean it. I wouldn't… I wouldn't lead you on, Thomas."

_Sure you wouldn't_. It's a dark thought, really, he knows there's a difference between natural charm and stringing someone along, but part of him believes it, after everything. 

"Not like this."

More believable, that.

"Right, then. You know how I feel about you."

Earns him a nod and a smile. 

An awkward, shy, terrified smile (and boy, does he ever remember that feeling), but it's at him, and that's what matters.


	5. Chapter 5

_ v. _

He's in the gunroom when Miss Baxter finds him.

"Have you heard?"

"Heard plenty of things," he replies, dabbing a rag with solvent, "quite a lot of talk around here." 

Carefully, he starts wiping down the ejector, soaks the rag again. It's a methodical thing, gun cleaning; he rather enjoys it. Takes his mind off things.

"You haven't, then," she says, clearly gleeful that she knows something before he does. 

Thomas looks up at her, then, because she's not one to get giddy, which means this must be big news — maybe he got Stowell fired after all. That'd be a joy for everyone involved.

And then Brancaster Castle would be out of a butler for the time being, which might be a good thing for him.

"Try me."

"His Lordship the Marquess of Hexham has just returned from Tangiers."

The Marquess of Hexham.

That  _ is _ big news.

"The staff are in a flurry; no one expected him — I'm sure we'll be expected to do our part."

"Think we've already done a fair amount more than that," he says. He tries to smile at her in a way that won't come off as resentful, but it probably doesn't work as well as he hopes, because he is, in fact, resentful. "Can't exactly leave a shotgun unassembled, though, if we're meant to greet him and everything — "

Carson would kill him if he knew he'd even thought of staying downstairs while a Marquess was in the house, let alone if he actually did it, but Carson isn't here, now, is he.

"No, he went straight to his room. But they say he'll be down for dinner."

Well, that he'll be around for, since apparently he's a bloody footman again. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't exciting, though; it's only been a few days and he's already desperate for something new to happen. Besides, Lord Sinderby may be hosting the party, but Lord Hexham's hosting him. No one wants to misbehave before a Marquess. If the man himself is even a shred more honorable than the guest in the house, which from how the resident staff talk is very much the case, he's probably not in for another humiliating evening. 

Good news, all in all.

"I'd best be back," she says, and he waves her off. She's got dresses to lay out, and such; he's got another gun to do after this one.

"Thanks for keeping me in the know."

When dinner comes around, Thomas's low expectations are very much exceeded: Lord Hexham's spirited, cordial, handsome, and impossible not to like — Rose and Atticus especially are smitten with him — even if he's waiting on him when he shouldn't have to. The tension of the previous nights is completely absent.

If he's got to be a footman, at least it's for a party that isn't full of aristocrats jumping at one another's throats and shouting at servants.

The Marquess speaks to Lady Grantham about art and Lady Edith about literature, says something Thomas could never hope to understand about Hebrew scripture for the Sinderbys, tells tales of Morocco that get the whole table chatting without regard for place etiquette, politely refuses an invitation to join the next day's shooting party, caresses the underside of Thomas's wrist when he serves him for the main course.

Interesting.

As they make their way down to the kitchens, the Brancaster footman sneers and says, "his Lordship's a delicate fellow."

Very interesting.

Once they're back in the dining room, Thomas drops a dessert spoon, catches his eye, and bends over.

Stowell smirks, probably thinks he's incompetent.

He is not incompetent.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

When he comes around with the petit fours, he gets bold, murmurs, "please excuse my carelessness, your Lordship."

This earns him a smile and a touch behind the knee.

Very, very interesting.

The rest of the dinner goes swimmingly. Afterward, in the smoking room, Lord Hexham wears a velvet jacket and takes Turkish tobacco, like it's 1885 or something — which was probably about when he was born, by the look of him.

Later, when he's boxing up Lord Grantham's cufflinks, the man says, "I hope you remember why you're here, Barrow."

"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

Lord Grantham lifts his chin, opens his mouth, then sets his lips into a line and nods. He takes off his tie himself and hands it to Thomas, who folds it and puts it in its proper place at the dressing table. "I think that you do."

"Very well, my Lord."

"Good God, Barrow, just — be _careful_. I don't need any of my staff making fools of themselves before a Marquess."

Thomas smiles at him, tight-lipped. They don't speak, after that, other than for Thomas to tell him that his shooting jacket needs steaming and he'll have his breakfast clothing up in the morning, and all that. He leaves feeling somewhere between self-satisfied and self-conscious.

Lord Hexham, in his dressing gown, greets him at the end of the hall. Thomas is far from shocked, and he falls in step beside him.

Seems like they're both veterans here.

"What is your name?"

"Thomas Barrow, my Lord."

"May I call you Thomas?"

That he wasn't expecting.

"Yes, your Lordship."

"I hope you will call me Peter."

"Certainly, Peter."

"Only if you mean it — you mustn't do it simply to please me."

This is not the sort of man he was expecting him to be in private, but it's a pleasant surprise.

"Would you like to come to bed with me?"

He pauses.

"That I would, in fact."

Peter takes his hand and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then he doesn't die of Malaria and when thomas needs a new job in series 6 he has one lined up in morocco. as a result, edith gets to live a quiet, happy, satisfying life in the country with bertie pelham, and they regularly commute to london so she can keep up with her magazine. robert is pissed.
> 
> sorry if you thought this was going to be about chris webster. it was going to be in fact but then i ended up writing like 3000 words so that'll be a separate canon divergence fic at some point in the near future. also, peter pelham is the most tragically underused minor off screen character in the entire series To Be Quite Honest.


	6. Chapter 6

_ &i. _

"How did you know?" Thomas asks, once they're out of York proper. He's been staring at his knees since they pulled away from the station, feels like if he dares to even look at Richard Ellis he's going to make a fool of himself, let alone if he opens his mouth — but he can't not ask, when it's been on his mind since he got into the car. Besides, they can't keep quiet the whole drive; that'd be torture.

He can still feel the touch of a finger on his lips.

Ellis tilts his head to the side, sort of opens his mouth and then closes it again. Might be wondering if Thomas has already forgotten the conversation they just had.

"About me."

He can't not look, either, now that he's started, but night driving takes close enough attention that Ellis may not notice.

(Thomas gets the impression that _ not noticing _ isn't a habit of his.)

"I mean, you must've done, before now – "

Ellis laughs.

"I didn't, actually," he says, and there's a quality to his voice that Thomas hasn't heard yet. Less poised, less suave, less sure. Disbelief, is what it is, wonder, maybe. "I hoped, I – I did hope, Mr. Barrow. But I didn't know."

There's something about the way he says his name, all formal, that makes him feel like he's been drawn up into something bigger than just the two of them — what he might feel if he knew someone was watching him and he didn't mind that they were. He doesn't know why; it's what everyone calls him, but it's different when Ellis does it. Like they're in on a secret.

They are, to be fair.

"You hoped," he repeats.

"Christ, I hoped." Ellis's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and then he exhales all the breath he must have been holding at once — the color comes back to them slowly.

Thomas just watches him. Funny that he can pick up on that sort of thing, when it's so dark, but until a few hours ago he'd always thought of himself as someone who doesn't _ not notice, _ either.

"Why me?"

His voice sounds far more steady than he feels like it should, when his heart is racing like this.

"You… stand out."

He doesn't know how to respond to that.

"Only member of the local staff who stepped aside, for one," Ellis adds, in a far more self-assured tone, and Thomas doesn't want to tell him that it wasn't exactly his choice. "No one ever does."

"Wouldn't expect folks very much enjoy being told that they're useless, Mr. Ellis."

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, huffs.

"Well, the fact remains that if you hadn't, I shouldn't be here with you now."

"Might have been better for my criminal record if I had," says Thomas.

"Not if I did my job properly back there," Ellis quips, and he turns his head to face him before looking back at the road.

His smile is so, so disarming.

"So, what," he says, "it's just as you said, you just… waltzed in and showed them your card?"

"Something like that."

"Always more to the story, isn't there." 

But if he sees the hint, he doesn't take it. 

Thomas watches the greenery pass them by, the way the lines on the road stretch and then shrink. Out his window, beyond the treeline, a sliver of the horizon is orange and purple. 

You never see true night in summer, up here, and with Ellis at the wheel next to him it makes him feel like they're in different circumstances, like they're not just on their way back to Downton after what's been both the best and worst night of his life all in one. Like he isn't just going to head to bed in an attic room and get up in the morning to work for folks who don't respect him. Like he isn't going to see off the Royal Entourage and then spend the rest of the day fixating — on where he might be if Richard Ellis were exactly as regular and upstanding as met the eye, on all the gross indecency cases about to be thrown onto the desk of a judge in York.

"I do a good deal of pretending, Mr. Barrow," he says at last.

Makes Thomas wonder again how he got so good at impersonating his boss.

"So I've noticed."

"Have you?"

They look at each other for a moment too long, quiet again.

" — eyes on the road, Mr. Ellis."

But after he's turned his focus back where it ought to be, Thomas keeps staring at him.

Just can't help himself.

"That's what men like us do, isn't it. Pretend."

_ Men like us. _

He goes back to looking at his lap, clasps his hands together and fidgets with his thumbs.

"Don't have to much, myself," he says, sheepish, like he's losing some contest between them where the winner is the man who's suffered the most. He doesn't miss Ellis's brow furrow. "Everyone at Downton knows."

After everything, that admission is apparently what it takes to break his composure: "how in God's name do you still have a job?"

"The good fairy came down on a moonbeam."

It gets a laugh out of him, at least, but he's shaking his head — whether it's in disbelief or disapproval Thomas has no idea. 

His mouth is suddenly dry, and there's a lump in his throat. "Ask myself the same question every day, in fact. Come right close to losing it more times than I'd care to admit."

No reply.

"Don't get me wrong, I _ hide_, it's not like I bloody talk about it, but I'll bet half of them knew from the moment I was brought on as a footman."

Feels like a whole lifetime ago.

"Rather a raw deal, isn't it, in most of these country houses," Ellis says finally. He's not quite nonchalant in the same way he was before — he's trying to be, probably, but Thomas thinks he may have torn a wall down, so to speak. "A man could be the best there ever was at his job, the nicest fellow around, but if he so much as looks at a bloke the wrong way — "

"Not too sure I fit your criteria, Mr. Ellis." Not too sure that this would all go down well in a city house, either, but no one from the Royal Household seems willing to admit that anyone from London could ever do wrong, and he's starting to think Ellis is in on it.

It's rather sweet, actually.

"You seem a nice enough fellow to me."

Thomas can't stop himself from laughing, bitter. "Hate to say it, but you don't really know me at all."

They pass by Alne — halfway there.

He pretends he doesn't notice that Ellis is slowing down — it's transparent, why he might be, but Thomas would do the same thing. The more time they've got alone, the better.

"No, Mr. Barrow, but I'd like to."

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://www.combeferre.tumblr.com)!


End file.
